The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[307] We've sought them where, in warmest nooks,
     The freshest feed is growing,
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks
     Through honeysuckle flowing;
Wherever hillsides, sloping south,
     Are bright with early grasses,
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth,
     The mountain streamlet passes.

But now the day is closing cool,
     The woods are dim before us,
The white fog of the wayside pool
     Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The cricket to the frog's bassoon
     His shrillest time is keeping;
The sickle of you setting moon
     The meadow-mist is reaping.

The night is falling, comrades mine,
     Our footsore beasts are weary,
And through yon elms the tavern sign
     Looks out upon us cheery.
To-morrow, eastward with our charge
     We'll go to meet the dawning,
Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge
     Have seen the sun of morning.

When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,
     Instead of birds, are flitting;
When children throng the glowing hearth,
     And quiet wives are knitting;
While in the fire-light strong and clear
     Young eyes of pleasure glisten,